


You're So Cold You're Boiling Over

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Long Way To You [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blow Jobs in a Car, F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2279172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d never thought himself a possessive man, but that was before he watched his wife talk and laugh and dance with Renly Baratheon with the intimacy of old lovers. It’s not fair to her, he knows. Theirs is a marriage of mutual utility and convenience more than one of love. But still, it had stung to see Margaery flirting with another man, no matter that he knows flirting comes as naturally to her as breathing. Maybe it wouldn’t have bothered him as much had the object of her flirtation been some other man, some stranger that she had no past relationship with, rather than her former fiancé. Jon shakes his head at himself in irritation; the man is her <i>former</i> fiancé for a reason, there’s no reason Jon should feel jealous.</p><p>Then he remembers Renly’s familiar hand resting low on her back, her peals of laughter as he murmured something low in her ear, and something hard and hot clutches in his chest. Jealousy seems to be just the right thing to feel, given the circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're So Cold You're Boiling Over

“You’re awfully quiet.”

Jon doesn’t reply. It doesn’t seem something that demands an answer, for one thing. He’s in what Sansa would call one of his fits of pique, for another. He kind of loathes himself for it, frankly, but apparently not enough to shake it off. He’d never thought himself a possessive man, but that was before he watched his wife talk and laugh and dance with Renly Baratheon with the intimacy of old lovers. It’s not fair to her, he knows. Theirs is a marriage of mutual utility and convenience more than one of love. But still, it had stung to see Margaery flirting with another man, no matter that he knows flirting comes as naturally to her as breathing. Maybe it wouldn’t have bothered him as much had the object of her flirtation been some other man, some stranger that she had no past relationship with, rather than her former fiancé. Jon shakes his head at himself in irritation; the man is her _former_ fiancé for a reason, there’s no reason Jon should feel jealous.

Then he remembers Renly’s familiar hand resting low on her back, her peals of laughter as he murmured something low in her ear, and something hard and hot clutches in his chest. Jealousy seems to be just the right thing to feel, given the circumstances, and a long car ride is the perfect opportunity to brood, something else his sister would say he’s prone to.

That’s just what he plans to do right up until he feels Margaery’s warmth pressed to his side, the scent of her perfume in his nose presaging the kiss she tucks just behind his ear, where she knows he’s sensitive.

“You did well tonight,” she hums against his neck, the vibration seeming to go straight to his crotch. Her hand follows the same path, snagging on his shirt studs as it glides down his stomach to settle teasingly over the fly of his trousers. For a moment Jon instinctively surges into her touch, but then he remembers her golden head bent in intimate conversation with Renly Baratheon, her hand on his arm as they spoke and on his back as they danced. His pique returns in a rush and he twists away, moving as close to the door as he can, his jaw clenched and his pulse thumping as he glowers out the window at nothing. He can see her reflection in the glass; surprise shows in the rise of her brows and the purse of her lips. Part of him is chagrined. Another part, smaller but still there, is pleased.

“Whatever’s the matter?” she asks, her voice as cool as ever. Something about it needles Jon. Most of the time he admires her preternatural self-possession, but right now he wants something…more. Something concerned, or even something angry. Something hurt. Something _real_.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, sounding like a sullen teenager. “Maybe you should ask Renly Baratheon.” He’ll regret behaving this way later, but right now he doesn’t care. It feels too good to vent his spleen, an opportunity he’s rarely afforded as a King and a leader.

“Renly?” Margaery asks, confusion evident in her voice. “What’s he got to do with anything?”

Jon bites down a childish retort – _what’s anything got to do with anything?_ – and shrugs. “You seemed awfully chummy with him. You planned to marry him once, didn’t you?” A plaintive edge sneaks into his voice, one he can’t control. She’s quiet for a long moment and he resists the urge to look at her, the urge to touch her and kiss her and babble stupid emotional dreck at her. God, he can’t even be jealous properly.

“Jon.” Her voice is cool as ever, but softer somehow, sweeter. She touches his wrist to bring his attention to her. Even in his dudgeon, the touch sends electricity crackling over his skin. When he turns to look at her, expecting to see her usual smirk, the one he loves but that he thinks would break his heart at the moment, there’s no smile on her face at all and her eyes are dark with something he can’t name. “Jon, I thought we were playing a game.”

“A game?” he echoes, confused. The hard knot in his chest loosens a bit.

“Yes, for the press. A bit of possessiveness for the cameras, some drama for the gossip rags. To humanize you and make people realize that their King feels emotions just like they do.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners, one corner of her mouth quirking up wryly. “I thought you were playing too.”

“I don’t play those kinds of games,” he says, his voice gruff.

“I see,” she says. A curious expression crosses her face as she looks at him, her lips pursed as if she wants to speak but is unsure what to say. It’s odd; Jon’s never seen her at a loss before. She touches his wrist again, for longer this time, her fingertips lingering over his pulse that’s beginning to hammer again, though more out of desire than jealous or anger.

“I’m sorry. If I’d realized it bothered you I’d have told Renly to piss off.”

Jon snorts. “You’d never speak so bluntly to someone in public.” She smiles again, but there’s reproof in it.

“You still have plenty to learn about me, your Majesty. Now, if we’ve finished this little detour, I do believe I was in the middle of something?” She trails her fingertips along his thigh, looking up at him, clearly seeking some sort of permission to continue. He’s never known her to ask for such a thing before; it’s one of Margaery’s charms that she feels no shyness about taking what she wants. Jon’s not accustomed to moving past things quite so quickly, usually preferring to nurse a grudge for a bit. Margaery is clearly having no such thing, though, so Jon shifts his knee towards her in unspoken invitation, letting her hand slip down the inside of his thigh. Smirking that smirk again, she surprises him by dropping off the seat onto her knees and moving between his spread feet, her hands on his buckle. He expects some saucy quip from her, but she surprises him again by reaching up and tracing her index finger along his lips as her other hand deftly unfastens his buckle and works at his fly. Before he can say a word, she’s freed him, already hard and aching for her, and drawn her tongue up the underside of his cock.

“Margaery,” he groans, his hand reflexively tangling in her hair, his thumb dipping into the hollow of her ear. “You don’t have to. I believe you.”

“Jon, relax,” she answers, smiling, and then takes him into her mouth briefly, sucking at the head of his cock and licking her lips when she pulls away, like he’s something delicious she’s savoring as a treat. “I want to. Don’t look a gift blowjob in the mouth.” His answering laugh is mingled with a groan. He flexes his fingers at her nape, bucking up slightly towards her mouth, a motion she rewards with her renewed attention.

He knows he won’t last long, though he thinks that’s less to do with his restraint and more to do with her skill, and with the avid way she seems to revel in it, her lipstick smudging over his skin and hers as she licks and sucks and tastes him. It’s painfully erotic, how much she seems to enjoy doing something so intimate to him. How much she seems to enjoy _him_. He’s close, his body starting to tighten and tremble, when she pulls off him with an audible pop that manages to sound comical and obscene and impossibly arousing all at once.

“Jon,” she says, looking up at him, his hand still on his cock. He was so close, _so close_ , he could practically weep. “I’d never do anything to hurt you deliberately. You know that, don’t you?”

“What?” he pants, trying desperately to keep his hips from humping at her like he’s a common dog with no control. “This isn’t the most convenient time to ask me soul-searching questions, Marg. Yes, I know.”

“Good,” she grins, lowering her head. Jon’s desire to weep with joy turns back into a desire to weep with frustration when she raises it again, fixing him with a smirk. “He’s gay, you know. Renly. In case you ever think to get jealous again.” Before he’s even processed the words, she’s taken him in her mouth deep, seaming her lips against her hand and squeezing his cock from base to tip, her tongue flicking just beneath the head. His body begins to spasm just as he realizes what she’d said, and if there’s anything that can make an orgasm seem conflicted, it’s having it just as he’s thinking about Renly Baratheon being gay. 

“You’re a terrible person,” he gasps, his hips jerking, the handkerchief Margaery must have fished out of her clutch turning hot and damp as she holds it against him while he comes. When he’s done, she sits back on her heels, running her thumb from one corner of her mouth to the other and licking it clean, which almost makes him think he could come again with only a little more encouragement. Her smile is sweet and innocent, which on her only seems suspicious.

“You’re welcome,” she says, her smile growing wider. Jon lets his head drop back against the headrest with a pained moan. They’d best produce an heir soon, because he’s not sure how long he can survive this marriage without spontaneously combusting and burning to a cinder. 

“I think I’m starting to understand why your husband died so young,” he rasps. Once the words are out of his mouth, he realizes with a pang how hurtful they must sound, but she only laughs in obvious delight.

“Thank you, darling,” she says, settling back into her seat. Jon thinks maybe he should get jealous more often.


End file.
